


Reparation

by PurpleFluffyCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Minerva McGonagall, Books, Courtship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hogwarts, Male-Female Friendship, Mutually Unrequited, Personal Growth, Post-Canon, Post-War, Rebuilding, Requited Love, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, architecture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:24:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9429905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: Headmistress Minerva McGonagall tells her story from the end of the war to the beginning of something quite unexpected. This is the personal, juicy version, mind - not for the eyes of students."So, there I was, heavy on responsibility and light on help. Drowning in the needs of others, but parched for company.And in tiptoes Horace."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capebfir](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=capebfir).



> This story was written for capebfir, for the wonderful hoggywartyxmas exchange, on livejournal.

There are certain moments in life - or perhaps even, just certain _images_ \- that fundamentally redefine the opinions we hold. These may be trivial; fleeting. A shaft of sunlight bursting through what was set to be an unremittingly overcast day. The excretions of a bird on what, from a distance, appeared to be an ideal bench upon which to eat one's lunch. Reaching the bottom of a pile of essays, only to find five more lurking in a desk drawer.  
  
They may, however, hold rather more weight and force. The discovery of adulterous post. Raucous cheering on the campaign trail. Someone saving your life.  
  
For me, the defining image of the past vexed year is not death and murder, shattered glass, spies and lies. I do not nominate these because, in my heart of hearts, I knew they were coming.  
  
That may sound a terribly cynical thing to say; said, perhaps, by a harpy who has little human feeling. I assure you, that is not the case. It is more that, when one has lived a good many decades, the passage of conflict ceases to surprise. One can, and must, endure as far as one is able, then survey the wreckage with grim respect and an eye to the future.  
  
No, the defining image for _my_ last year is that of Horace Slughorn charging through the Great Hall in singed silk pyjamas. They were green (of course) with quilted lapels in gold damask and slippers that were nearly worn-through at the toes. Curses flew from every direction, but he bore too much determination to allow any fear to surface; Horace fought with both skill and bravery, like a man with nothing to lose, but everything to save.  
  
If ever there was a moment in which I viewed a person in fresh light, it was then.  
  
And that, dear Readers, is where this story starts.  
  
  


*****

  
  
I don't need to tell you too much about the immediate aftermath of the war, I trust. You will have read it all in _The Prophet_ : the funerals and memorials; the inquests and medals; the broken families and mended lives. Suffice to say that it was public, and painful, and made an old lag like me jolly glad to simply be a supporting act in the lives of the three poor children who had borne the brunt of both the war and the peace that followed.  
  
Never accused of under-selling myself, though, I tell you: support, I jolly well, did. In spades. There was a period of at least six months when I couldn't wake up without finding a queue of owls at my window and half a dozen Floo calls on hold. 'We'd like your advice, Professor McGonagall...' 'Please join our committee for...' 'As Albus Dumbledore's second in command, we need to ask you whether...' 'Dear Minerva, I'm feeling rather down, and...'  
  
And, and, and, and, and.  
  
Then, of course, there was the rebuilding to consider. The battle of a generation doesn't do much for the integrity of an historic building, magical or no - and as Headmistress-by-default, that was all my bag. I had to talk to the castle. There were some parts that it could reform itself, like a living thing healing after it has been wounded. The same magic that causes the staircases to shift and change could be harnessed to pull a wall back from rubble, or re-tile a turret that had acquired an unintended skylight. But such enchantments have their limits. The whole of the South side was so badly gone that the old place could do nothing more than make its gargoyles wince - and that's where the real work came in.  
  
They all looked to me to head up the project. To be frank, I hadn't a clue - people don't seem to realise that Transfiguration is really quite different from Construction - but when did a mere thing like complete lack of knowledge, experience or a plan, last stop a Gryffindor?  
  
Books came in jolly handy. It turns out that the Hogwarts library (mercifully unscathed by the trouble, other than the chandeliers) contains a surprisingly large seam of Construction Work, and after not a small number of burnt-out candles and pre-dawn starts, I began to know my pointed walls from a dry-stone and my flying buttresses from Byzantine arches.  
  
It was nice to be wanted, I suppose. I don't pretend to be so modest that it wasn't somewhat satisfactory for the world to be taking an interest in doses of good, Scottish common sense. However, as a dear friend of mine would say, it all got a bit... much. There is a limit to what one person might carry alone, before starting to crumple.  
  
The help started slowly - dare I say, timidly. I found the occasional cup of hot tea on my desk, when I was pretty sure that I hadn't brewed one. The next day, it even came with a biscuit. And then, one afternoon, about a month in to the project, Horace stopped me in a corridor and said, "I found this. I wasn't sure if it would be any use to you," and thrust a rare copy of _The Definitive Treatise on Stonework and Enchanted Carving_ by E.M. Masonshaft, 1743, into my hands, scampering away before I could even say 'thank you'.  
  
As books go, that's a pretty niche item. So niche, in fact, that only one hundred copies were ever printed, and later-published texts on the matter of conserving historic magical buildings can only reference in wistful tones the great skill and insight that was undoubtedly lost when the last few copies of E.M. Masonshaft disappeared into private collections and no doubt gave-up-the-gargoyle to rising damp and falling ceilings. Even Hogwarts doesn't have one.  
  
It made me wonder. Wonder, that is, about who, exactly, my allies were, in this odd new world. Over a year before, I had lost my dearest friend - and he was not only my dearest friend, of course, but, rather conveniently, a smart-arse of a dearest friend, who had all of the answers. To say that I felt somewhat bereft in both the 'friends' category and the 'answers' category is something of an understatement.  
  
The girls were all nice enough. Poppy and Pomona and Irma and Aurora. And Charity, bless her soul. Even Filius - who is so polite and thoughtful, I think of him as an honorary girl, sometimes.  
  
No, don't get me wrong, I get on with them all perfectly well. I suppose it was just that there had been so many years of me-and-Albus, and the-rest-of-them, that those relationships were only at arm's length. I had been privy to so many things - of the war, of the peace, of the school and the governors, and of their own jobs, for heaven's sake - and the natural reserve that insinuates itself between manager and managed is hard to break down. Each and every one of them would have performed any reasonable task that I asked, of course. But to actually break rank and help me seize the reins? Not so likely.  
  
Horace, though, was relatively new. Of course, the sweep of history tells us that he wasn't at _all_ new, but it is amazing how a period of retirement can reset the clock in these fickle working relationships. He always marched to his own tune. He gossiped when everyone else was deadly serious, and he stared, earnestly aghast, when the others tittered by the tea tray. He dressed stylishly; indeed, if I didn't have it on good authority from several quarters that Horace very much liked the ladies, I would have assumed he was just as much of an old queen as Albus was.  
  
He was flamboyant and feisty and fun; quite the life of the party - and even though I had never been much of a party-animal myself, I have certainly always been able to appreciate a good conversation when I hear one. Indeed, with all that entertaining and patronage, it was meet to say that Horace was a kind and generous man - whenever it suited his agenda, that is - and although I'm a Gryffindor, I don't have a problem with that kind of selectivity. It's logical. We don't all need to go around giving out indiscriminate favours, like some bleeding-heart Hufflepuff.  
  
Where I did have a problem, though: I'd always dismissed him as a coward.  
  
And now, dear Reader, perhaps you see how the disparate parts of my story begin to link-up. We come full-circle, don't we, to my rather melodramatic introduction?  
  
So, there I was, heavy on responsibility and light on help. Drowning in the needs of others, but parched for company.  
  
And in tiptoes Horace.  
  
  


*****

  
  
"Would you like me to do half of that?" I was in the office at quarter to midnight, and I hadn't even heard him come up the spiral stairs.  
  
Startled, my eyes flicked up from the huge pile of parchment on my desk; I was on room 13 out of 467 of the full damage inventory. "Sorry," I muttered, "I wasn't quite expecting visitors..." I squared him with a Headmistressly gaze. "What can I do for you?"  
  
Horace smiled, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He didn't quite cross the threshold into the room proper, lingering by Albus' miniature planetarium. "Those plans." He pointed over at the desk. "My mother was a magical architect, you know. Although I didn't quite inherit her eye for design, I know my way around all the standard projections."  
  
The silence drew out between us as I processed his words. Horace's moustache twitched slightly. I blinked, and glanced at the clock - and felt an inward battle of pride and stubbornness versus good sense and loneliness stage itself in my breast.  
  
Then, something clicked, and I felt a little sick with what later turned out to be a kind of relief. "Gosh. Thank you," I managed, "Yes... that would be marvellous."  
  
Horace grinned, and he almost looked relieved, too.  
  
  


*****

  
  
"...And that, I think, is where the end of the reciprocating lever pinions with the central reverse-sprogget." Horace placed a chubby finger with surprising delicacy on one of the many, many intersections of fine lines on the ancient plan before him. We were sitting again in my office on a Saturday evening, a fortnight hence.  
  
I looked at him with a kind of awe. He was competence manifest in purple velvet; phenomenal practical knowledge wrapped up in a disarmingly dilettante parcel. "For gods' sakes, man! Why didn't you tell me you could do all this?!" I swatted his arm - meaning it, but meaning the compliment, too.  
  
"Well, I..." Horace started to blush, his apple-cheeks turning rosy as they peeked from behind his mustachios. I was struck by the absurd notion that it was pretty adorable.  
  
"Really, though," I persevered, brushing away such a daft thought, "These kinds of skills are priceless for us, now. Given the war damage, they're probably needed all over the country."  
  
Horace seemed to consider that, his gaze melting away from the plan and into the middle distance. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. "It's quite a novelty for me, you know - to feel... useful." He looked suddenly shy. "Useful for what I can _do_ that is, rather than just who I know. Not that I really know anyone any more... it's a different world, isn't it? Made me wonder why I'm still knocking around in it, when so many fine young people... aren't."  
  
There was not much that could be said to that, so I refrained from filling the silence with platitudes. I thought about tea, but the pot was dry, and to refill it for the fourth time might be stretching the point. A brisk change of subject was surely in order. "I say. We've been working on this for hours, now, and with your expertise, we've made excellent progress. How about we apparate to Diagon Alley and have some dinner? I know a nice little Italian place that's open late, and would be just the thing."  
  
Horace looked at me for a moment as if I'd grown a second head, and then his face broke into a broad smile. "What a splendid idea," he said, and then we were off.  
  
  


*****

  
  
I say _and then we were off,_ as if this was some kind of thestral race - out of the traps and into the first straight. But, dear Reader, I'm somewhat embarrassed to say that's exactly how it felt.  
  
We did indeed go to Manuelli's that first evening, and it was if I had flipped a little switch - unknowingly and so easily - that set in motion a whole journey; a whole new way of looking at things. I suspect what I really mean is that I _allowed_ myself to.  
  
'Allowed yourself to _what?_ ' the astute among you might be thinking. The truth is, I'm not entirely sure. At that point, my conscious mind was thinking of dinner. You know - pasta and red wine, and suchlike. A bit deeper down, maybe I was thinking of company, and respect, and a growing affection. Perhaps most of all, I gave myself permission to not be alone.  
  
It turned out, with growing acquaintance, that Horace was marvellous company. He was witty and smart - and self-deprecating in that very English way of which Scots don't quite have the knack. We laughed about the real world and everything in it, together with the most absurd abstract notions that Horace dreamt up, pulling along my limited capacity for the fantastical into his realm of possibility and delight and topsy-turveyness. I had had no idea that he was so nimble, or so kind. I realised that I hadn't really known him at all.  
  
Given that Horace was so impeccably dressed, I found myself making a bit more of an effort than I usually would for dinner with a colleague. Now, please don't think that I became some kind of awful dolly-bird - perish the thought. No; it was just that there _was_ some nice jewellery at the bottom of my dresser that didn't often see the light of day, and if I so happened to have some evening robes that were a little more satiny and form-fitting than usual - well, so be it. It doesn't hurt to put a lick of paint on the old barn door every so often, anyway.  
  
We had dinner together most Saturdays, and then when the Easter term finally yielded to the long summer vacation, it somehow became more often, again. We tripped out to Hogsmeade with regularity, but also apparated further afield to Diagon Alley, and beyond, to Wizarding villages by the sea with cute little cafés. We walked side-by-side along harbour-fronts, and through thatched squares with poppies nodding their heads in cottage gardens. We went to the theatre, and to an Arabian restaurant where everyone sat on cushions on the floor. We visited an art museum and Horace's old London club. Sometimes, though, Horace just came up to my rooms and the elves brought whatever it was that I had managed to remember to order; sometimes we met in his rooms - and, I confess, on those occasions, the attention that had gone into planning the catering was rather more impressive.  
  
The other staff, I'm sure, had noticed that Horace had become absolutely central to the reconstruction efforts. I hadn't said a thing - and I suspect, just like his role in the final battle, neither had he - but I noticed that Horace kept getting compliments about the way the West Front was coming back together, or how lovely the reassembled stained glass looked in the hall.  
  
In my younger days - and I'm not proud of this, mind - I daresay I would have been rather miffed at someone else getting the credit, at least half-owing to all my hard graft. But this time, it was perhaps odd that I genuinely wasn't riled.  
  
On the contrary, I felt... happy? Proud? The evenings were long and balmy, and the castle really was finally starting to look better. I had begun to notice the flowers growing at the edge of the forest, and the sunbeams dancing on the lake. It was almost as if Hogwarts was breathing a hard-earned sigh of relief, healing and growing at peace. For the first time in over a decade, I noticed the unfamiliar tickling of a feeling I struggled at first to identify: contentment.  
  
And the alleviation of stress is, of course, a fertile ground for other things.  
  
  


*****

  
  
Horace and I were having supper together, in some little place in Godric's Hollow. It was still out of term, so there were few young people about, and plenty of visitors who didn't know us from any other witch or wizard.  
  
There had been some elf-made wine - I don't deny that - and we were halfway through a conversation about post-war politics, when I was struck with immense, almost out-of-body clarity by one simple thought: I wanted his cock. I needed to see it, to touch it, and most importantly, to have it inside me.  
  
I blinked. I nodded, attempting to maintain a handle on the thread of the conversation. I wriggled in my chair, as the physiological effects of that realisation made themselves known.  
  
And crucially, I started to make a plan.  
  
  


*****

  
  
So, let's take a step back for a moment, shall we? Are you shocked? Titillated? Amused that an old biddy like me should have such a notion? Or disapproving, perhaps?  
  
The more liberal and literary-minded of you might not be concerned by the matter of my pre-occupation there, _per se_ , but its sudden appearance in an otherwise worthy and wholesome tale. The _non-sequitur_ of it all. _'How could she,'_ you may be thinking, _'simply ~segue~ from admiring comments about the West Front and sunlight on the lake, so statements so baldly crude and carnal?'_  
  
Well, if you are thinking at least half of those things, it might give you a small taste of the confusion that ricocheted around my brain not two minutes after the notion made itself felt. I believe that this may be an authorial device known as 'involving the reader'.  
  
And even if you don't buy that - you overly analytical types out there - I resort firmly to the position that this is my tale, and I'll tell it however I damn well please.  
  
So, after a further hour or two of distracted wiggling on my part...  
  
...Absolutely nothing happened. Horace and I apparated back to the castle as usual, and bade one another a platonic good-night.  
  
I walked back to my rooms in something of a trance, mind reeling, and feeling terribly excited and terribly foolish for feeling so terribly excited, because - and I repeat - _absolutely nothing had happened._  
  
I let myself into my chambers and balled-up on the sofa, knees tucked beneath my chin as my mental energies alternated between the tactics of a Field Marshall and the infatuation of an adolescent. If you, for one moment, might think that was an attractive combination - trust me, it wasn't.  
  
I went through all of the logical checks. Had I been drugged with an aphrodisiac? The charms used by every wartime agent worth her salt assured me, I hadn't. Had I suffered some bump to the head? Clearly, not.  
  
The feelings were genuine, then. But what was I going to do about it?  
  
Of course, the most straightforward thing would have been simply to tell Horace what I had in mind, and take things from there - but I couldn't possibly approach him in that way. _No,_ I reasoned, _it would be necessary for him to raise the subject._  
  
But how could I persuade him to make the first move? If he even _wanted to_ \- I realised at this point, you see, that I had been flattering myself entirely without cause - make a move at all.  
  
For the avoidance of doubt, I would like to clarify - lest some of you be harbouring such outdated notions - that my perceived inability to broach the subject myself was absolutely nothing to do with being of 'the fairer sex', or any such twaddle. Indeed, quite the opposite: in my professional position, I was Horace's superior, and it would have been unconscionable for me to have abused my authority. If there was to be any dalliance between Headmistress and Teacher, the teacher would have to be sure he wanted to do the running.  
  
Having said that, though, there was nothing wrong with removing any areas of murkiness that could be standing in the way. I meditated quite carefully on the difference between setting out one's stall in a respectable manner, as it were, and being a pushy street-hawker - quite confident that I knew where to find the line between the two.  
  
And as I lay in bed that night, I couldn't help but imagine that my fingers were plumper, warmer and kinder than they really were, as I grappled toward some kind of relief.  
  
  


*****

  
  
"Did you know that this year marks the twentieth anniversary of Elphinstone's death?"  
  
"Sorry, what?" Horace jumped at the turn in conversation, and I cursed myself for my apparent inability to make a faux-casual remark actually sound casual.  
  
"Oh, nothing..." I flannelled. "Just a comment on the passage of time. How much of it has passed, and suchlike..."  
  
"Ah. I'm sorry." He suddenly looked awkward, and replaced his biscuit on the saucer. "I daresay I'm taking up rather too much of it, then. I apologise for intruding at what must be a difficult period of reflection." Horace made to get up.  
  
"No!" Now, the flailing on my inside then made itself somewhat apparent on the outside. "That's not what I meant at all. Rather that..." I tried to compose myself. "Rather that a lot of time _has_ passed. And that... I'm not grieving anymore." I twisted my hands under my desk, fully aware that this was sounding more and more awkward by the moment. "I have the fullest respect for Elphinstone's memory, of course," I added, trying not to sound callous, "but twenty years _is_ a long time, and, as the young folks would say, I suppose I have now, 'completed the healing process'."  
  
Horace's expression changed from one of discomfort to simple bafflement. He was too polite to say, 'And you're telling me this because...?', but it was written all across his dignified features.  
  
"Ahem. Anyway. These pinions on the fourth floor..." He seemed to relax when I changed the subject back to business, and I suppose I did, too. This courting malarkey was far more difficult than it had been when I was a girl, I reflected, and kicked myself for being apparently so ham-fisted at it.  
  
  


******

  
  
"So, how's your love life, these days?" Enough wine had been poured that I figured I could just ask - so, after pudding, I came right out with it.  
  
Unfortunately, Horace started to choke until red wine came out of his nose. "My _what_?"  
  
"Love life. You know, the birds and the bees." I limped on, thinking 'in for a Knut, in for a Galleon', and all that. Meanwhile, alarm bells began to ring again at, once again, how awkward this was sounding.  
  
"Oh," he said, finally.  
  
And that was all he said.  
  
The pause stretched on. I raised my eyebrows expectantly, and answer still came there none.  
  
"I say, I bumped into a cousin of Balthida Bagshot's the other day," started Horace, changing the subject.  
  
"Really?" I replied, going along with it, while in my breast reared a new monster with eyes of the most distinct shade of green.  
  
He was clearly being coy about something. _He was seeing someone else._  
  
  


*****

  
  
Dear Readers, the astute among you may notice yet another _non-sequitur_ in my tale, at this stage. 'How,' you may ask, 'could Horace be described as _seeing someone else_ when he wasn't even seeing _you_ in the first place?' And indeed, ask that, you may.  
  
The infatuated mind does not necessarily see reason, however - and it is likely fair to say that by that stage, when the evenings were drawing in, I was really quite infatuated.  
  
My days had become subconsciously categorised as 'days when I got to see Horace' and those other rubbishy 'non-Horace' days. Luckily, there seemed to be more in the former category than the latter, but life and work for both of us were busy, and it would have been stretching the point for me to pretend that he could be relevant to _everything_ that I had to do in a given week.  
  
Even when we weren't together, though, he was never far from my thoughts. I found myself storing up little titbits of conversation to tell him when we next met, and saving the excellent truffles from Ministry working lunches to share later that evening. I would be continuously impressed by the progress he was making on the reconstruction work - to be honest, increasingly now _his_ project, with my involvement only in the background - and look forward to being shown the latest bit of stonework or stained glass that had come back together. I would treasure his quips and jokes, and find that I could share my laborious attempts at comedy by owl, without even feeling embarrassed by the result.  
  
And when we _were_ together, I was so strongly aware of his presence. I seemed to have a sixth sense about where his hands were - on the table-top, or expertly swirling a glass - and found myself edging nearer, so that our fingers might accidentally brush. I watched his mouth as his spoke, and his eyes as he enthused. I felt the solidity of his build on the sofa next to me - making a dent there that just seemed to beckon me closer - and felt the hems of his exquisite robes across my ankle or wrist.  
  
And then I could only imagine what it would be like to share the heat from his body, and to feel the touch of his gourmet lips all over mine. I quivered with the thought of it, my fantasies lurching from quick and desperate in the office - bent over my desk with the door unlocked - to luxuriant afternoons in summer sun, me riding him for hours amid lazy moans as the dandelion seeds wafted by.  
  
Despite it all, though, I kept my promise to myself, and crossed no professional line.  
  
The idea that he might, in fact, be otherwise engaged, took me from hope and frustration to powerlessness and despair. _Why wouldn't he already have a paramour?_ I thought. _If I want him, then surely others would, too. And they might be younger, prettier, funnier and wealthier._  
  
Indeed, there was a whole realm of potential for better matches than a middle-aged workaholic witch with limited cuvaceousness and a penchant for the pedantic. Horace surely respected me as a Headmistress and valued me as a friend, but the chances of him seeing me as anything more seemed then to be vanishingly small. I tried to resolve that I should just give up on the whole concept, but my silly old heart seemed to have other ideas.  
  
And it is exactly in that limbo state of circular analysis and unrequited attraction that intelligent women do erratic and random things.  
  
  


*****

  
  
"Pomona, do you have a moment?"  
  
I stopped her in the corridor, between classes. The October rain slithered down the leaded light windows as students rushed by on either side.  
  
"Certainly," she replied, all smiles and grubby fingers in the process of navigating items from one greenhouse to another.  
  
"I was thinking about our staff Christmas party this year, and it occurred to me that it might be nice to do something a bit later on, so that everyone can invite their partners to come, too. What do you think?"  
  
"Oh, that would be lovely. I'm sure that my Edwin would be delighted!"  
  
"Excellent." Then I steeled myself, trying hard to sound off-hand. "But do you think the other staff would be keen. Would Horace bring his partner, for example?"  
  
"Horace?" Pomona asked - and then the baby Mandrake she was holding began to scream, scattering students like skittles. "Oh, I am sorry!" she laughed. "I'd better take this little chap away before he causes any more trouble..."  
  
I looked at Pomona's retreating figure, and sighed. _Was the world determined to torture me like this?_  
  
  


*****

  
  
_My dear Horace,_ I wrote, from meeting room 138b at the Ministry. _I'm so sorry to have to cancel our dinner this evening; Kingsley wants me to look at his new Educational policy, and apparently it simply can't wait until morning._ I sucked the tip of my quill, wondering exactly how far I could bend the truth before it snapped. _Might you be free tomorrow evening, instead? I know I said last week that I would definitely be busy on Saturday night, but the thing with the School Governors seems to have fallen through. Of course, no problem at all if you already have other commitments. - M._  
  
With a deep breath, I sealed the note, and attached it to the well-trained owl who was waiting by the table with more patience than my dilly-dallying rightfully deserved. That was the fourth time in a fortnight I had tried to reshuffle our plans, and most of it had been spurious.  
  
All he had to say was: 'Oh, sorry, I'm seeing Mildred, then' - or Ella, or Nancy, or Susanna, or whatever her name was.  
  
I missed him so much - in that absurd way that one can miss something that one has never actually had - and as the weeks and months dragged on, it was getting to the stage where I almost wanted to just be put out of my misery, rather than continue all of this hopeless waiting and guessing. I missed his smile and his sense of humour; the fact that he seemed to be able to sense my mood even before I was aware of it myself, and was always ready with exactly the right quip, or anecdote, or gentle piece of wisdom. I missed his tall tales of the places he had travelled and the people he knew - the Arabian fakirs, the French chefs and the Japanese warriors. I missed his learning and intelligence; the potions that he had concocted and the old architectural skills that just seemed to be going from strength to strength. And most of all, I missed not feeling so alone; the illusion that, when we were together, I could be part of a _two_ in this tattered new world of ours, not just a _one._  
  
I tried to concentrate on the papers that Kingsley had given me - the ones that were not so urgent, after all - and waited for the beat of wings.  
  
  


*****

  
  
It was a chill Sunday afternoon - in particular, one on which I had _not_ buggered around with our plans. Horace had agreed to show me his latest progress on the Great Hall - in particular, the new rose window, which was assembled flat on the hall flagstones. Given that the original had been unsalvageable, we had taken the brave step of commissioning new leaded-lights from Goblins in France; the ancient workshops of the Loire are famed for both the quality of their work, and the trickiness of their business. I say, 'we'. In truth, Horace had done everything apart from sign the cheques.  
  
The hall was empty apart from the light and the echoes; a sanctuary of peace amidst a busy castle. I walked right around the window, inspecting it from every angle. Horace rocked back and forth on his heels.  
  
"It really is looking marvellous," I said, meaning every word.  
  
He looked up at me, perhaps a touch shyly. "Do you really think so?"  
  
I nodded, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the flush at his cheek.  
  
Horace smiled, and warmed to the topic. "The painted designs are as close to the original as they can be, but we didn't have a visual record of all the outer panels. The larger sections were reproduced in 'Hogwarts, a History,' but florets three and five are largely recreated from collective memory. - Particularly the memories of the ghosts, actually - who have had longer to inspect the artwork up there than most, I daresay. They each insisted that their own house had the majority of the figuration, but I concluded that an even split was the most politic way to go - even if it wasn't exactly like that in the first place."  
  
"Very honourable of you not to make it just the Slytherin window," I teased.  
  
"Really, Minerva. Would I do a thing like that?" He raised his eyebrows in mock innocence, and I laughed. "You should also have a look at the repairs to the main doors, you know."  
  
Obediently, I crossed to the far end of the hall. The gouges in the wood of those venerable old doors had been healed with great power and care: the curses and hexes had been purged and extracted, and the wood was smooth and whole once more. I ran my fingers over the exquisite metalwork that bound the panels in place; it twisted and curled in the tracery of badger, eagle, lion and snake. "Did the new iron strapping come from the Loire, too?"  
  
No answer came. I tried again, half-turning. "I say, Horace - did you get the goblins to do the metalwork on the doors?"  
  
Again, there was no reply. I turned around fully and found Horace gazing in my direction, utterly lost in thought.  
  
"Horace?" I called. "Horace!"  
  
"Oh!" With a jump, he shook himself out of his reverie.  
  
I frowned a little. "What is it?"  
  
From the other end of the hall, he spoke so softly it was almost as if no one was supposed to hear. "Oh, just you, standing there. The way the light was catching in your hair..." Horace then shook himself again, and continued in normal voice, with full aplomb. "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.  
  
"Anyway. Yes. Back to the window - we just need to clean up the old mortar joints in the masonry up there, and check they're sound - very important, mind, given that the buttresses were destroyed and the window contains the keystone to the entire roof - and then and I should be ready to levitate the whole rose construction into position tomorrow afternoon."  
  
Arriving back at his end of the hall, I raised an eyebrow. "Will it really levitate all in one piece? That thing must weigh several tons."  
  
He chewed his lip for a moment. "No; it should be fine. As long as the receiving structures are firm, the spellwork should hold at the first attempt. That's what Mama would have done, anyway."  
  
I nodded, still eyeing the great mass of the window. To be frank, _I_ wouldn't have wanted to try levitating it all in one go - but then again, I reasoned, Charms had never been my strongest suit, and it would have been patronising to suggest that Horace needed help.  
  
_Just another reason to be besotted with him_ , I added, wryly, to myself.  
  
I wanted to suggest that we went off together for tea, but considering we had just had lunch, that would have been stretching the point, rather. So, I bade Horace a good afternoon, and went back to my office to stare right through some papers while thinking of him.  
  
  


*****

  
  
The following day, I was in London, in Kingsley's cabinet office. We were half-way through a tense meeting about the re-integration of children from the families of known Death Eaters. Some of the more energetic junior ministers were advocating removing youngsters from their parents, to be raised in some sort of Ministry Foundation; I thought that sounded like an ideal way to ensure a repeat of the least savoury aspects of our recent history, and was arguing vigorously against. Kingsley listened much and said little, his gaze passing steadily up and down the table.  
  
Suddenly, Filius' Patronus whooshed through the window - a bright young sparrow of the purest silver - bringing the meeting to a startling halt. It turned to me to say, "Terrible accident with the stonework. Poppy has done what she can, but Horace might not make it. Come quickly."  
  
It didn't even occur to me to apologise to Kingsley or to pick up my spectacles before I apparated back.  
  
  


*****

  
  
I strode into the infirmary, every nerve tense. My eyes flashed to Poppy, but she just shook her head apologetically. "He's in the furthest bay on the left." She didn't say anything else.  
  
Rushing around the corner, I saw Horace and my heart lurched into my throat. The clean-up had only just finished; blood-banishing charms hung all over the floor, and he looked almost translucent with paleness. He wasn't breathing.  
  
Poppy approached from behind me. "A Death Eater left an explosive hex in the ceiling of the Great Hall," she explained, "A little parting gift, coupled with an _immobilis_. Horace was just guiding the new rose window into place with a levitating charm, and then - bam. He couldn't get away. So much rubble fell, there was little chance, really."  
  
"Is he..." I started - realising at once what a hackneyed line that sounded, and not caring a jot about it.  
  
"I've spelled him into a coma to try to stabilise his vital signs," said Poppy, briskly. "We won't know any more until morning, at the earliest."  
  
"Thank you, Poppy," I said, with a clear tinge of finality in my tone. I was trying to be professional, but probably sounded heartless. The truth was, I didn't think I could hold myself together in such a conversation for much longer. Poppy took the hint; she nodded and bustled away.  
  
When I felt confident I was unobserved, I allowed my throat to catch and my breathing to hollow. It was just too much effort trying to look calm. My arms folded themselves across my middle; sickly wound and tense.  
  
I steeled myself, and looked at Horace carefully, just lying there. The room was bright and the crisp linen was folded about him just-so. It was perfectly done - almost too perfect. Although nothing could be said against our infirmary's cleanliness, I bristled at the sight; it looked entirely too much like a setup for eternal sleep.  
  
I sat down next to Horace, and just silently willed him to pull through.  
  
  


*****

  
  
I went back that evening, and every morning and evening in the following week. With every visit, I was getting more desperate. Most of my work had gone by the wayside; I put in cursory appearances at meetings I couldn't avoid, but essentially did nothing much, apart from visit and worry.  
  
On the plus side, Horace had started breathing again; the suspended animation charms had been released, and he was holding his own at the most basic level. Against that, however, was the fact that no-one knew whether he would regain consciousness.  
  
"Can he hear anything?" I asked Poppy, one late evening. She was running some more tests, just before retiring for the night. I had become such a permanent fixture at Horace's bedside, she no longer asked whether I needed to leave, or whether she could go about her business; she just worked around me.  
  
Poppy shrugged. It was the kind of gesture a Healer reserves for those special cases where they _really_ don't have any answers. "There is certainly no evidence to confirm that he can't," she concluded, with great diplomacy.  
  
As an empiricist myself, I couldn't say fairer than that, so I nodded and gave a tight smile - which Poppy seemed to interpret as welcome permission to go off to bed.  
  
When her footsteps had retreated, I let out an almighty sigh. I looked at Horace once more: steady breathing; face placid; the gentle thrum of monitoring charms about him and that damnable smooth linen enswathing him from top to toe.  
  
"Horace, I..." I tried. "It's Minerva. I've been coming to visit you every day for a week, now. Most of the time, really. We're all eager to have you up and about again..." The words seemed to ring hollow around the infirmary, mock gung-ho in the darkness. "It's just that..." I started again, not really sure what was coming next.  
  
Everything in my chest felt tight and constricted, as if I had been bound up in leather straps. I tried to steady myself and took some deep breaths - but then, from somewhere inside me, a great torrent seemed to bubble upward and overspill - of despair and pain and fear and anger.  
  
"Really, man!" I snapped, in a voice that was so ragged it was only barely my own. "It is quite unreasonable of you to lie there completely unconcerned for the panic and mayhem you're causing me - not only because it turns out that you're completely indispensable around here, but moreover because I'm deeply in love with you, and I simply can't bear the notion of losing you like this!"  
  
For the first time in years, I started sobbing. I buried my face in my hands and hot tears squeezed themselves out, as my shoulders shook, and the sounds of it bounced unheeded off the infirmary walls. I was racked with crying; doubled over with it. It was almost as if my body had forgotten _how_ to cry, and now it was shocked by the motion, raw and primal and bruising, and nothing even like it had felt during the war.  
  
Then, just at the moment when I could stand no more - when I was at the end of what endurance and strength I had within me - Horace's eyes cracked open.  
  
"You're in love... with _me?_ " he said, in a voice like sandpaper.  
  
And he went out again, like a light.  
  
  


*****

  
  
The following day, I was woken early from a fitful sleep by the doorbell to my rooms. On-edge, and feeling only half-functional, I climbed out of bed and grabbed a dressing gown on my way to the door. I was met there by a walking bunch of flowers.  
  
It was so tremendously large that it filled the doorway from jamb to jamb, and tickled the top of the architrave. Lilies and irises and oriental peonies and hybrid roses gushed forth, competing with one another in their beauty and rarity and exotic scent. Every inch that was not overflowing with blooms was fresh and glossy dark green, and a huge silken bow fastened the ensemble, cascading downwards. At the very bottom, though, peeked a pair of fine burgundy leather shoes with golden tassels, and the hem of a green velvet robe. In my early morning stupor, I merely stared.  
  
The bouquet quivered a little, and then, perhaps inspired by my silence, tentatively explained itself. "Ahem. For you."  
  
"For _me?_ " I parroted, in perfect idiocy.  
  
The bouquet nodded.  
  
Overwhelmed, by it all - to see him there, healthy and whole... and coming to see _me_ , at the crack of dawn in my chambers - I forgot myself entirely, and charged headlong to embrace Horace... ending up with a mouthful of ivy and pollen and crushing several prize blossoms along the way.  
  
"Oho!" He exclaimed, winded and reeling backwards.  
  
"Sorry, I..."  
  
The bouquet teetered from one side to the other for a moment, then righted itself. "Ha ha. Not at all, my dear." Horace's smile emerged from behind the foliage, positively glowing.  
  
I stepped backwards from the doorway, and he came in, smoothly levitating the flowers into a vase, and then stopping to stand across the room from me, rather formally. "I love you, too, my dearest Minerva," he declaimed. "Very much."  
  
My ears struggled to process it, and my heart was doing so many somersaults, it was at risk of forgetting to beat. I was flushed, and dizzy, and rooted to the spot. So preoccupied were all my finer feelings, in fact, that all that came out was: "But why didn't you _say_ something?" in a rather accusatory tone. - I never have, and never will, be accused of being a romantic, I'm afraid.  
  
Horace shook his head with a wry smile, overlooking my lack of charm, as it seems he so often had before. "I never would have believed I could be so lucky," he replied.  
  
I stepped forward, and took both of Horace's hand in mine. They were warm, and they squeezed my hands in return. "You recall, some time ago, when we were working on plans in my office?" I asked. "You said that you wondered why you'd survived the war, when so many youngsters didn't. Well, I don't know the reasons. But I do know that I'm very, very glad that you did. Thank you, Horace."  
  
"For what?" He wrinkled his brow, looking me straight in the eye.  
  
"For being here. For being you. For being with me."  
  
He seemed satisfied with that, and opened his arms in invitation of an embrace that I was overjoyed to - finally - be able to accept.  
  
  


*****

  
  
So that, pretty much, concludes my tale. It started with Horace in his pyjamas, and finished with me - looking positively worse-for-wear, I'm sure - in mine. It started with loneliness, and ended in companionship. It started with suspicion and ended with love.  
  
Quite the very best kind of tale, I'm sure you will agree.  
  
What's that? _'-And as for Horace's cock?'_ Well, you may ask, you prurient Reader, you...  
  
But I did raise the topic, so it seems only fair game for you to mention it, now. Let me assure you, dear Reader, that it is _even better_ than I had imagined.


End file.
